


The Small Things

by speckledsolanaceae



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8415349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckledsolanaceae/pseuds/speckledsolanaceae
Summary: Just a compilation of my shorter writings. Ships and characters will be updated as I add more chapters. I'll also include in each heading who I'm writing for.





	1. Height—Asanoya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nishinoya Yuu x Azumane Asahi fluff

Nishinoya settled up on the counter like a bird in his nest, shaking his shoulders, ruffling his feathers. He blew upward a fast, hollow whoosh in an attempt to get those blond strands out from between his eyebrows, tickling the bridge of his nose. His eyes crossed momentarily in the effort, and Asahi was there, the bird watcher, hands frozen in a bid for his mug of coffee.  
  
It wasn't that Noya was beautiful, exactly, but he was extraordinary. It was incredible to watch him. It was amusing, fascinating, and so much so that it had become usual for Asahi to still and watch.  
  
"Come here."  
  
Asahi regained mobility and blinked as he brought his mug to his lips. "Me?"  
  
Nishinoya blinked back at him, briefly disgruntled. "Duh."  
  
Hurriedly, he set the mug back down, apologetic. "O-okay."  
  
Awkwardly, he put one hand on Noya's knee and the other on the counter next to him. When he met his impatient gaze, the room seemed to brighten momentarily just by the glittering, thrilled winkling in Noya's big eyes.  
  
"Guess what, Asahi."  
  
"Um." Asahi further searched Nishinoya's eyes for a similar, more telling glimmer of a secret. Well, they were excellent eyes. There was that. "What?"  
  
"I'm almost your height!"  
  
'Almost' was, perhaps, a stretch. Noya's torso wasn't so long, after all. It was worth some celebration, however, that if Asahi had so chosen to lean forward, his lips would easily graze Nishinoya's temples.  
  
Asahi smiled gently (always gently) and rubbed a rough cheek against Noya's smoother one. Nothing (almost nothing) was better than his choking, protesting laughter and calloused hands pushing at his face. "Stop it, you cactus! Let me kiss you."  
  
Asahi obliged, first knocking noses, then lips, coffee breath and mint.  
  
Counter or not, Nishinoya was a million times greater than his height. That was the honest truth.


	2. Synesthete—Daisuga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Daichi has lexical-gustatory synesthesia (if anyone who reads this has the same thing and believes I wrote it inaccurately, please, by all means, let me know). This is when they both meet their first year.

There was one single thing Daichi knew at once about Sugawara Koushi, and that was that Suga was beautiful. He imagined carved marble and sunlight and crystallized pillars of glittering salt, and there wasn’t much to refute the art washing through his head by way of the boy’s personality. Perhaps the only thing was that Suga was not in the least salty except in perfection. He was sweet and smooth and his words tasted like gritty seashells and dark chocolate.  
  
Perhaps it would have been easier for him then and there if he had known that there was immediately something to love inside Sugawara Koushi, but all he saw was fine slips of paper that had more weight upon Suga’s skin than they had within a book.  
  
“Tennis,” Daichi muttered. “Wrestling. Golf—”  
  
Golf was an interesting one. It tasted coppery and bold, but it was not so familiar that he could easily put a finger on it. He moved on.  
  
“Tea ceremony—” He smiled. That was a warm set of words, but just the thought of him sitting down and really getting into tea was more amusing than realistic.  
  
“Volleyball!”  
  
A wave of rich spiciness overthrew him very briefly and delicately, like a silk-spun web of flavor and heated bubbles.  
  
Daichi turned his head, finger still hovering over ‘TEA’ to be met by a slowly simmering pair of honey eyes. “Most people look over it, but volleyball is…”  
  
The boy drifted off and wiggled his fingers. Daichi thought of sesame oil in a thick but mild broth settling in his brain with swathes of familiarity. He almost said it.  
  
“...thrilling. It’s thrilling.”  
  
“I know,” said Daichi. “I’m a wing spiker.”  
  
He didn’t mean to embarrass the boy, but his honey eyes had squinted above a pale blush. “I’m a setter. What were you looking at the other clubs for?”  
  
Daichi flushed and pushed the club list into his bag. “Curiosity.”  
  
“My sister was in baseball.” The boy settled on the bench next to Daichi and held out his hand. “My name is Sugawara.”  
  
“Sawamura.” Daichi shook Sugawara’s hand and marveled a little at how pale the boy was against his own skin. Salt. Salt and dark chocolate and seashells and cold, beautiful marble. “Are you a first year?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sugawara nodded. “I am, yeah. I’m excited for volleyball, here.”  
  
Sesame oil and thick broth and salt.  
  
Daichi nodded.


	3. Erase—Tsukkiyama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the Spring High Preliminaries—there is a spoiler that this revolves around, but it's very minor. If you watched episode 7 of season 3 or past chapter 177 in the manga, you'll be just fine.

Kei did his best not to fiddle with the wrappings on his hand. He didn’t need to fiddle, and it was better if he didn’t. He pinched the tips of his fingers.

“Tsukki.”

He stopped, eyes flicking to the smallest peek of a smile tucked into Tadashi’s lips.

“It’s going to heal just fine,” Tadashi said, returning back to his homework. He’d made a nest for himself on the floor, papers scattered in a half moon. If Kei wanted to cross it, which he didn’t need to do, it would take some reaching.

“I know that,” he replied, and straightened one of his own notebooks as if it might make Tadashi’s stuff look like less of a mess. It didn’t.

“You’re worried anyway, though, and you don’t need to be.” Yamaguchi’s dark hair brushed his nose, slipping from where he’d tucked it back, and Tsukki watched with a quiet sort of moroseness as it was pushed aside again.

He wasn’t worried.

Tadashi was leaning back, now, and was reaching for his bag that was leaning against the closest wall of Tsukishima’s room, sticking a leg out for balance. Kei wasn’t really sure what else could be in his bag, exactly, since he’d dumped it all on the floor, but it was fine. Tadashi’s foot was really close to him, spanning the homework crescent. He ignored it. 

Returning to his textbook, Kei placed his bandaged hand purposefully out of his vision. He wasn’t expecting to be pegged by a projectile in the very next second—a small, pointy something tapped against his chest and fell in the center crease of the textbook. Something kind of yellowish and distinctly Jurassic in figure.

“Is that a Diplodocus?”

Tadashi began to laugh, putting up his hands to cover the smile that swallowed him. If Kei wasn’t deliberately trying to ignore his bandages and their implications, he would have reached to pull those hands away.

Actually, probably not. This was fine. And touching Tadashi would be awkward. Probably.

Tadashi recovered quickly. “It’s an eraser. I forgot to give it to you.” He added, “I thought it was a Brontosaurus.”

“Those don’t have spines down their backs.”

“Right.”

Kei was grateful that Tadashi immediately began to look at his homework again, and perhaps it was just because he’d known Kei for long enough not to try to catch every emotion that dared to genuinely cross his features. Kei rubbed his cheek into his shoulder anyway, as if it would exfoliate the smile off his own face, and fiddled with the eraser instead.


	4. Instinct—Noya and Tanaka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little seriousness and then no seriousness at all. And then a little dash of serious at the end. It's all good—they're happy.  
> Can be seen as a ship or a friendship. Whatever you please.

“Did you really come for the uniforms?”  
  
Noya turned his gaze on Tanaka, and his step wavered, arms coming out shakily to restore his position of balance. Ryuu held out a hand just in case, but Noya looked back ahead in the next moment and kept walking along the wall, arms still out until he could shove his hands in his pockets again. The light was leaking over the bricks and the laughter that had been fizzling in their bones has settled to an impression. He didn’t really mean to ask the question. Not that it was a big one or anything, but he’d wondered for a while.  
  
“Yeah, actually,” he replied, and his thumbs rubbed against the outsides of his black pockets. The snatch of yellow in his hair had been one of the only bits of color on his person before the sun started tinting everything a soft orange. Noya’s smile reappeared, cropped into his face as something organic. “I mean, partially. Losing’s not so bad so long as you’re where you want to be.”  
  
“We don’t lose too much.”  
  
“Nah, we don’t. I didn’t feel like we would. Though that first year was rough.”  
  
Things were still rough, really. Just in a different way.  
  
Tanaka exhaled, reaching over to yank on the shoelace of Noya’s planted foot. He earned a squawk, a soft bat about the ear most available to the victim, and felt the fizzle of laughter intercept him and erupt mid-stride. The bright energy lifted the conversation off his shoulders.  
  
Noya jumped off the wall and did that thing that tied shoes really fast, and Tanaka had tried learning how to do that. Really. But his fingers weren’t made for deft movements.  
  
And then his own shoes were untied—which he should have expected—but both of them, and it became a grabbing game on the sidewalk until one of Tanaka’s shoes had been thrown about 30 meters into the nearby field, and Noya was being lifted straight up in the air.  
  
“Those were new shoes!”  
  
“ _One_ new shoe! Put me down!”  
  
The last word was drawn out in a loud protestation, and Tanaka was laughing too hard to keep him up in the air.  
  
“Shit.” Tanaka was wheezing, almost, when he set him down. Immediately, Noya’s arms were around his middle and his feet left the ground like… a centimeter. “ _Shit._ ” He was almost in tears. “Go get my shoe, you demon.”  
  
Another centimeter and Noya began to walk farther from the field, which was awkward as hell and hilarious as hell simultaneously.  
  
He wasn’t even mad when Noya accidentally dropped him and he’d been too limbless to catch himself.  
  
He lost his other shoe while tears were squeezed out his eyes from both the pain in his hip and the quickly-forming stitch in his side.  
  
If he was being honest?  
  
It was kind of rough realizing how quickly time passed. But it felt good to laugh.


	5. Romantic Gesture—Matsuhana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matsuhana healing stuff

The tea coughed up steam, and the windows were silent, and his knees were stiff as his toes hid themselves further into the couch cushions. The rim of his mug was a perching spot for his eyes, staring into the weather until they watered, he pulled the mug down, and he burned his tongue instead because if he didn’t drink it now, it would grow cold. His throat flaked, his eyes didn’t stop watering, and his knees made a sort of creaking as he pushed himself further into the cushions.  
  
He’d woken up today, like he was meant to, and had done his homework, like he was meant to, and then stared into his tea, wondering if it would melt the lead in his chest. Matsukawa breathed through a wire sifter with holes so small, suffocation was tangible.  
  
A key disrupted the pins of the door, and it yawned wide, snapping a world of static into existence for a single moment until it sealed itself again. Hanamaki’s bag dropped in the entrance with a gasp of crushed pretzels and rub of textbooks.  
  
“You wouldn’t believe—”  
  
A trembling breath of a smile tangled in his throat, and he turned, spine crinkling.  
  
“—what someone asked me today.”  
  
Hanamaki’s fingers immediately went to Matsukawa’s bedhead, soft yanks with knobby knuckles that sent tingles down his neck, and Matsukawa scooted forward to allow Hanamaki to plunk himself down behind him, long legs bent around his hips.  
  
“They asked if I considered my hair to be the color of cherry blossoms or peaches.”  
  
The smile made it out of his throat. He rested against Hanamaki’s chest and the fingers were removed from his hair, arms draped over his shoulders to tap on the porcelain of Matsukawa’s mug. “What did you say?”  
  
He could hear the seriousness in Hanamaki’s voice: “How dare you speak to me.”  
  
Matsukawa’s laugh was thin, but meaningful, and Hanamaki buried his lips and nose in his hair.  
  
The silence grew in weight, each breath ticking off its fingers, and Hanamaki pulled the mug from his sweating hands as Matsukawa’s tears began to drip. Hanamaki’s palms smoothed streaks of color back into his arms as the tears continued slipping, the tea still bleeding steam on the ground next to the couch, begging to be knocked over. Matsukawa’s hands scrubbed at his cheekbones, his eyes, or would have done so if his limbs weren’t empty. Hanamaki heart was steady against his shoulder blade.  
  
“What do you think?” Hanamaki’s question threaded through his curls.  
  
“Pink,” he said, voice quavering. He drew his wrist across his nose. “Your hair’s pink.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
It was affectionate, a plea, a reprimand, a reminder warming his bones just enough.  
  
His breathing shuddered, the tears subsided, and Matsukawa got himself up somehow for the sake of tissues and washing his hands, his muscles cold metal and silently shifting. Hanamaki stayed on the couch, swirling the retrieved tea as he gazed at the shuttered blinds. He got up when the water turned on, and light splashed across the floor as the shutters clacked against the walls. Hanamaki swallowed.  
  
“You up for a run?”  
  
Water threw itself against the sides of the sink, colder than he’d meant it to be. Hanamaki didn’t wait for an answer, really, meeting Matsukawa in the kitchen with a hand printing itself on the small of his back. He returned the mug to him and began to place the dried dishes into the cabinets off the rack.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“In a few minutes?”  
  
The water choked up, handles squeaking, towel wrung between Matsukawa’s hands. Matsukawa placed his lips on Hanamaki’s temple. “Yeah.”  
  
The kiss that followed was sweet and simple and slow even though Matsukawa’s fingers were cold, and Hanamaki’s lips were chapped, and Matsukawa sniffed more than once.  
  
There were many types of romantic gestures. One was getting Hanamaki to stop pulling out his eyebrows when he was stressed. Another was pillowfights at 2 in the morning. Or getting Matsukawa on a run when it slipped his mind that he was okay, and he was important. There was also kissing until the urge to cry burned itself away in a desert of bare affection.  
  
“I love you,” Hanamaki repeated into his lips, and Matsukawa’s mouth twitched.  
  
“Apparently.”  
  
“Get your ass in gear.”  
  
This laugh was less thin, but there was still the walls whispering his name when he forgot to keep moving. Hanamaki pushed at him, because he’d beat it all away with a stick if he’d have to—maybe the leg of a table or the useless textbooks breaking his back in his bag.  
  
“I’m going.”  
  
And Hanamaki would sell his soul for that smile, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for matsuhana week but that was in like... July. I think. Anyways... in a lot of ways, this was specifically for Hope.  
> Thanks for everything <3 you've been really sweet


End file.
